


The Living and the Dead

by Ophelia_j



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Canon, Red Pants, Red Pants Monday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 08:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20503589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_j/pseuds/Ophelia_j
Summary: Sherlock knows he isn't supposed to go through John's things. Except this time he has a really good excuse...





	The Living and the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> For englandwouldfalljohn for welcoming me to the Twitter fandom. :)
> 
> My first time writing modern Johnlock. Wasn't sure I'd be able to do it, I'm so ACD canon adjusted, so I hope its passably in character!
> 
> For the prompt: dogtags.

Sherlock is going through the drawers of John’s dresser when he finds them. He knows that John objects to that sort of thing, but really, this time he has a good excuse. He needs a white shirt, and his are all pink. He has a vague memory of Mrs Hudson saying something, as he loaded the machine, about red pants and white shirts but honestly, she talks almost constantly and he can’t be expected to pay attention to all of it. Or any of it. And he’d been occupied at the time with mentally triangulating the exact location in London that the mud in the centrifuge must have come from given the other variables involved, which he had been right about, obviously, so it’s quite acceptable that he ignored her. Only now his whites are pink. And not even a good pink, which might be nice. A sort of hideous splotchily patterned off-pink. And he needs something vaguely acceptable to meet Lestrade and his barely competent colleagues later.

His hand closes on an appropriate shirt of John’s. It’ll be too short and too broad, but that won’t be noticeable under his jumper and coat and it’ll stop that awful Donovan making comments about – his eye catches a flash of silver at the bottom of the drawer.

Dogtags. John’s. From his army days. Except. Not. Because the name after Watson isn’t John. It’s Mary. Followed by her date of birth. And date of death. He frowns. There are three tags on the chain. He lifts them out.

The first one says: Charters, Adam, followed by what must be his dates of birth and death. At thirty years old. The date places it during John’s service in Afganistan. The second is Mary. And the third - he turns it over.

_Holmes_, _Sherlock_. His own birthday. Followed by the date he fell from the roof at St. Barts.

*

The flat is unusually quiet, so John reaches the doorway of his own room before realising Sherlock is even home. When he sees the tags in Sherlock’s hands he says, a sudden rush of apprehension making his voice even sharper than he intended, ‘We’ve talked about you going through my things.’ He holds a hand out for the tags.

Sherlock says, ‘Needed a shirt.’

Then, quietly: ‘I'm alive, John.’

‘You were dead, Sherlock. You were dead _to_ _me_.’ John reaches out and takes the tags from Sherlock’s hand, careful to avoid touching him in any way. He folds them tightly into his own hand so there is not even a telltale glimpse of silver. Sherlock stares at his closed fist like he can still see his name.

John says, ‘These aren’t about you. Or – or Adam. Or Mary. They’re about me. My life. My survival. The people l lo- ’ He breaks off.

Sherlock looks at him. He doesn’t understand. John can see it, and he’s suddenly too tired to explain it.

Sherlock asks the inevitable question. ‘Who was Adam?’

John sighs, debates leaving the room to stop this conversation. He sits on the bed instead. ‘Let’s not pretend you don’t already know, yeah? You just tell me what you’ve deduced, and I’ll fill in any gaps.’

Sherlock lifts his chin, says, ‘A fellow army man. Not a medic, a soldier. Assigned with you in Afghanistan. Died there. Important to you, since you have his dog tags.’ He stops, as if choosing his next words with care.

John thinks it’s a little bit disconcerting, this new considerate version of Sherlock that’s appeared since Mary's death. Considerate is a relative term, obviously, but the concept of him thinking before he just blurts out whatever he’s deduced, is strange. John isn’t entirely sure he likes it.

Sherlock says bluntly, ‘You’re not _gay_, John.’

John stares at the bedspread. It’s a rather hideous shade of pastel purple. With flowers. One of Mrs Hudson's. Even after all this time she still seems to view him as some lost waif who needs to be supplied with life’s essentials. He’d like to refuse more, but the happiness in her face when he accepts stops him doing so too often. This particular item is beyond the pale though, he thinks. Aloud he says, ‘I’m not gay. I’m - a bit bi.’

There is a pause so long that John thinks Sherlock has wandered off into his memory palace and got lost. When he looks up, Sherlock does look lost, but he’s not in his memory palace, he’s just staring at John, still clutching his shirt.

John says, ‘Sherlock, you okay?’

Sherlock licks his lips, goes to speak, stops, then starts again, says harshly, ‘You can’t be a _bit_ bi, John, you either are or you aren’t.’

‘Fine, I am. We done?’

Sherlock says, and his tone of voice is one that John isn’t used to. It sounds like he’s deducing through fog. ‘You’re not gay. We’re not a couple. You’ve always said that.’

John frowns. ‘Yep. Accurate then. Accurate now. Still not gay, still not a couple.’

Sherlock says, ‘But - you were with this Adam. You – you loved -’

John stands, snaps, ‘I thought we’d just had this conversation Sherlock, yes.’

‘You were with Mary. You loved Mary.’

‘Yes.’ And then he sees where this is going, and says, warningly, ‘Sherlock -’

The detective bursts out, ‘You weren’t with me. You were _never_ with me. You never loved - _me_.’ He sounds hurt, he even _looks_ hurt.

John stares at him across the room, struck. He says, ‘Sherlock,’ swallows, forces himself to continue, ‘Of course I loved – love – you. Of _course_ I do.’

‘Not like them.’ He’s upset. John looks at him in disbelief. ‘Never like them.’ He crosses the room and seizes John’s hand, making a grab for the dog tags. John almost lets them go in his surprise, then sees Sherlock’s intent – he’s about to remove his own tag – and grabs them back.

Sherlock keeps hold and he ends up almost ripping them from his flatmate’s hand. 'Sherlock, what the hell? They’re _mine_. _Leave them._’ This last is a shout and it brings Sherlock up short. He stops.

John snaps, ‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘I don’t belong on there. It’s not the same.

‘It is to me.’

‘No, it isn’t. We weren’t - we aren’t - _together_.’

‘Well of course we’re not. You’re not – interested in that sort of thing. You said so.’

‘You said you weren’t gay. Repeatedly.’

‘What’s that got to do with -?’

Sherlock says, his voice suddenly quiet, ‘What if I was?’

John is beginning to feel like this conversation is getting away from him. He says, ‘What if you were what?’

He waits for Sherlock to roll his eyes at his ongoing stupidity, but he doesn’t. He just carries on, in that uncertain voice, ‘Interested. In - that sort of thing.’

John freezes. After a moment, he says, in a voice slightly higher pitched than his usual. ‘You’re not. You said so.’

‘Years ago, John. I said so _years_ ago. Accurate then.’

John swallows hard, says, and his voice still doesn’t sound like his own, ‘Accurate now?’

Sherlock looks at him for a long moment, then shakes his head.

And with that one gesture the rest of the world seems to fall away, the sounds and sights disappear and all of it is just one man. All he can see are those piercing eyes, that ridiculous hair, and that heart-breaking expression of hopeful fear.

He says, ‘Oh.’

Then: ‘Since - when?’

Sherlock says quietly, ‘Since I – went away. Being without you was unbearable. I didn’t realise. Before. I didn’t know what it felt like. And then you were gone. And I knew.’ He stops, bites his lip, then carries on, ‘I was going to say. Something. When I came back. But -’

‘Mary.’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh.’

Sherlock is standing in front of him, tension in every line of his body. He looks like he’s seconds from breaking from the room. It's that, more than anything, that decides him. He’s had enough of losing people.

He says, ‘Sherlock, I’m, er – I'm going to kiss you now.’

Sherlock’s expression doesn’t noticeably change but he says, ‘Good, John. Excellent.’ Like he’s approving of some clever deduction that John’s just made, and for a second John has to fight the ridiculous urge to laugh.

Then he’s stepping right into Sherlock’s space, he can feel the warmth of his body, his breath, and the whole thing is as serious as a goddamn heart attack. Right up to the moment their lips meet he’s expecting Sherlock to pull away, so it’s a jolt when his mouth is suddenly warm against John’s. John can feel his heart beating like he’s running a sprint, he’s hyperaware of everything, and the world is spinning around him, but Sherlock isn’t reacting at all, he’s just letting himself be kissed, and John stops, draws back and looks at him.

Sherlock opens his eyes.

John says, ‘Erm, Sherlock -’

Sherlock says, ‘You stopped.’

‘Well, yes, you didn’t seem - ‘

Sherlock snaps, ‘I’m gathering data, John.’ Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, of _course_ he is. ‘Do it again.’

‘Er - okay. If you’re sure -’

‘Do it again, John.’

So, he does. More confidently, this time, pressing his lips more firmly against Sherlock’s. He slips a hand around Sherlock’s waist, pulling them closer together, and cards the other through that ridiculous hair, which as it turns out, was absolutely made for this sort of thing. Sherlock has leaned only a little more into the kiss this time, still not really reacting, and John is just beginning to worry that this is a mistake, when Sherlock gets with the programme. All at once, and with characteristic energy. His arms go around John, pulling him flush against Sherlock’s body, and John is being kissed back with the kind of ferocious passion he wouldn’t have credited to his flatmate. John Watson has never gone weak at the knees in his life, and fortunately he has plausible deniability on this occasion as Sherlock’s grip on him is the embrace of a man concerned that if he lets go the loved thing will be ripped away.

It feels like forever, and much too short a time, before they come apart. John is in need of oxygen, and stability, and breathes hard, as Sherlock rests his forehead against John’s, running his hands along the sides of John’s face, his neck, his shoulders, and back again, murmuring his name in way that makes John emotional for reasons he can’t quite define. He catches Sherlock’s hands, notices their slight tremble, says, ‘Hey. You okay?’

Sherlock says, almost inaudibly, his voice not even slightly steady, ‘I want more, John.’

He huffs a relieved laugh into the intimate space between them, ‘And you can have it, love, but let's go slow, okay?’

Sherlock draws back just enough to see his face. ‘Whatever you want, John.’

And it's so fucking hopeful and sincere that John feels his heart tighten in his chest. He won’t fuck this up. He won’t lose this, not again. He draws away slightly, enough to look to the floor where the dog tags fell at some point, disregarded by both. He picks them up, removes Sherlock’s, and hands it to him.

He takes it in confusion. John closes his hand over it, says, ‘I never want to need that, Sherlock, you understand? No stupid heroic gestures, no unnecessary risks. This is –’ his voice chokes, and he tries again, ‘This –’ he gestures between them ‘- is too important, right?’

Sherlock, wide eyed, nods slowly. John can’t help but smile at his transparent sincerity. He takes Sherlock’s hand, takes a breath, says, ‘Okay. Good. Right then. More?’

*

Later, he puts the dogtags back in his drawer. It's months before he looks at them again. He’s digging through the drawer, looking for something else, when his eye catches them. There are three again. Frowning, he takes them out. Sherlock’s is back. But his name is no longer alone, and the dates are gone. It simply says:

_Sherlock Holmes / John Watson_  
_ Always_


End file.
